Liability
by PrincessNala
Summary: "That's exactly what he is to you, Sherlock, and as long as John Watson remains by your side, I will never stop using him against you. He's the weakness you really can't afford to have." John/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**Heya everyone, another Great Game ending scenario from me, but this one is a little different than the others. For one, it happens about six weeks after the swimming pool incident, and for two I've had to do so much research for this, considering how I know next to nothing about the streets and roads in London, or Benzodiazepines and their effects :)**

**I got the idea for this one halfway through watching Knight and Day in the cinema, and it was intended to be a oneshot, but I checked the wordcount and this was getting way too long, so I split it into two parts. I haven't finished the second part yet, so that might not be up for a while, especially since I'm starting back at college soon.**

**If I get any of the information wrong in this, then I blame Google. ^^ Oh, and if any of the victims' names happen to be any actual people's names, then I'm really sorry but Moriarty may have just murdered you. ^^;**

**Same goes for the places mentioned, should anyone actually live there. :)**

**This is going to be John/Sherlock romance, so if you don't like then don't read, ok?**

**Ok then, onwards! Read on and review for me please!**

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John's POV:

They'd discovered the sixth body today. It was another woman this time, found in the early hours of the morning in an apartment near Kensington Road. And, just as all the previous murders had been, it was painfully obvious that she'd been left there as yet another blatant message for Sherlock Holmes from one Jim Moriarty.

After that incident back at the pool where Carl Powers died, John knew that the search for Moriarty had become something of an obsession to his dark-haired flatmate. In fact, it was more than a bloody obsession. Every moment of every day, Sherlock poured over whatever tiny scrap of information he could find that could be a potential lead on where the hell the psychotic bastard was hiding, but so far he'd found absolutely nothing. That in itself was worrying enough, but it swiftly became clear that Moriarty didn't want to be tracked down until he'd finished toying with them, leading them on this merry dance around half of London and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Too many innocent people had already been caught in the crossfire of this stupid dangerous game, and many more would go the same way if Sherlock didn't somehow manage to track down the consulting criminal soon.

It had been six weeks since that fateful first meeting with Jim Moriarty. Six weeks since Sherlock had gravely underestimated his opponent, and six weeks since John took a bullet that had been intended for his flatmate.

The bomb had been a fake. Of course, neither John nor Sherlock had realised that until the dark-haired detective had pulled the trigger of the Browning L9A1 with the intention of blowing them all straight to hell and that single bullet had drilled through the material of the incendiary vest at Moriarty's feet where it should've ignited the explosives instantly. Only it hadn't, because there weren't any explosives.

That cunning bastard had played them right into his hands, and if the smug knowing grin on Moriarty's face had been any indication, things were about to get even worse from there on in. Sherlock's face had slackened momentarily in unexpected shock, but then his features swiftly rearranged themselves back into their usual imperious aloofness, despite the fact that they were now backed into a corner with nowhere to run and no way out. John had seriously hoped that his magnificent genius of a flatmate was putting that massive intellect of his to good use and was working on an escape plan.

But then out of the corner of his eye, John had noticed Moriarty give the tiniest of gestures with his left hand, so small it was barely more than a twitch. It would've seemed completely insignificant if it weren't for the cruel gleam in his dark eyes as he'd done it, not to mention the fact that all those ominous red dots of light had blinked out except one, which was now trained directly on the back of Sherlock's head.

So John had let his military reactions and instincts take over, and had lurched up from the floor without giving his brain a chance to catch up with his body, slamming his shoulder into the taller man beside him and knocking him to the floor. And in that exact same moment, there was a muted pop of a gunshot from one of the snipers above, and John's world exploded into nothing but searing burning pain that literally swept the legs out from under him, crashing him down face-first onto the tiles alongside Sherlock.

He didn't remember much after that, only the unbearable agony of the bullet lodged in his back and the harsh scent of blood and chlorine in his nostrils. It hadn't been a fatal wound, thank God, but that didn't stop it hurting like a bitch. The last thing John could recall was the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone voice calling his name and a pair of pale hands scrabbling to turn him over, those intense grey-blue eyes coming into view for a few seconds before John's eyesight blurred and turned dark as he let himself slip away into wonderful painless unconsciousness.

And the next time John opened his eyes again, he'd found himself staring up at a stark white hospital ceiling with a drip in his arm and a lingering ache that throbbed dully just below his left shoulderblade. How he'd managed to get there at all was a complete mystery to him, since he'd been pretty damn certain that they'd needed nothing short of a miracle to escape Moriarty alive, but apparently that's exactly what they'd received.

As it turned out, it hadn't been divine intervention that had saved their lives. It had been Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother and 'arch enemy'. John didn't really know any of the details, since Sherlock had hardly been forthcoming with any information as to what he'd missed back at the pool, but what he'd gathered was that Mycroft and his men had arrived just in the nick of time to overrun Moriarty's horde of snipers and rescue his infuriating younger sibling and his flatmate from the mess they'd royally dropped themselves into. Moriarty had somehow managed to escape, though, which was the reason why Sherlock was working himself to death in his determination to hunt the suited psychopath down.

Right now, the dark-haired detective was sat in his favourite armchair, his piercing grey-blue eyes barely blinking as he stared unwaveringly at the huge map of London he'd pinned up on the wall above the three-seater sofa, completely covering up the yellow smiley face and bullet holes in the faded wallpaper beneath. His hands were pressed together beneath his chin, his fingers steepled in his usual thinking pose, and there was a slight crease between his eyebrows as he frowned slightly at the coloured lines of roads and streets glaring back at him. He hadn't moved a single muscle from that position ever since they'd come back to 221B after visiting the latest victim earlier that morning, and John was starting to get a little bit worried for his flatmate's health and well being.

There was something really off about Sherlock lately. It was so small, practically indistinguishable to someone who didn't know the consulting detective as well as John did, and even then it took him a fair few weeks to realise that something had definitely changed. Every now and then, there was a strange emotion that clouded his usually bright grey-blue eyes, accompanied by an almost minuscule tightening of the skin around his eyes and lips. John couldn't put a name to that emotion, no matter how hard he tried.

The first time he'd noticed that expression was when he came home from the hospital a couple of weeks ago and Sherlock had been sat there in his chair, waiting for him. The dark-haired man hadn't visited him once while he'd been recovering in that hospital bed. And to be honest, that had really pissed John off. He'd taken a Goddamn _bullet_ for him, and the man couldn't be bothered to come and see him, or hell, even _thank_ him for it. Even for someone as socially-inept as Sherlock Holmes, a little bit of gratitude wasn't so alien that he couldn't express it to someone who had literally been willing to die for him back there.

But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't even stay mad at him for being left alone in that hospital, because when he'd finally arrived back at the flat, everything had fallen neatly back into place as though nothing had happened. Granted, he'd had to hobble around with his crutch for a few days because his back still ached and burned if he stayed standing up for too long, and Sherlock had taken to depriving himself of sleep and trying to overdose on nicotine patches to stay awake, working over evidence and information and trying to join all the dots together until ridiculous hours of the morning, but despite all this, John decided that it was great to be home.

John finished reading the newspaper he'd borrowed from Mrs Hudson, folding it up and putting it aside as he relaxed back into his own armchair, looking over at the map Sherlock was currently so engrossed in. Spread out on the coffee table that his flatmate had dragged over in front of him were six autopsy reports and God knows how many crime scene photographs, arranged in order from the first victim to the sixth. John tried not to look too closely at those, because every time he risked a glance, the pictures made him feel sick to his stomach. Not for their brutality, though.

No. He didn't want to look at them because every single one of the victims was unmistakeably Dr John Watson.

Four men and two women, ranging from age nineteen to forty-five. Their sex and age were the only way they differed from each other, because everything else was eerily and purposely similar. All of them were short in stature, petite, with dark mousy blond hair and tawny eyes. They wore identical denim jeans and a knitted jumper, their hair cut in a military style exactly like John's own, and they had all been murdered by a single stab to the heart with a serrated hunting knife. Moriarty's message couldn't have been any clearer if he'd tried.

But _why?_ Why him? Why would Moriarty go through all this trouble to find someone who looked vaguely like him, murder them and dress them up as John's double before leaving their corpses for Sherlock to find? Was he taunting him with the fact that John could've died back at the pool for him? It didn't make sense... or did it?

John knew for a fact that he was the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes had probably ever had. Moriarty knew that too, damn him. So was he attempting to use their friendship against them? Trying to hurt Sherlock by throwing a load of dead John Watsons in his face? Was this all just another twisted part of their idiotic game of cat and mouse, or was Moriarty making things a lot more personal? Huh, well the answer to that one was painfully obvious. It was definitely personal now.

Without warning, Sherlock sprang up from his chair and John jerked a little in shock at the unexpected movement.

The dark-haired man didn't say a word, but the determined expression on his face spoke volumes as he climbed over the coffee table and crossed the room in about three strides, pausing only to rummage around in one of the drawers of his desk and pulling out what looked to be a roll of red wool (probably 'borrowed' from Mrs Hudson's flat without her knowledge) and a handful of small red pins. John just watched him in bewilderment as the taller man then stepped up onto the leather sofa cushions and surveyed the map with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John asked, leaning forwards slightly in his chair. Sherlock was unravelling the wool in his hands and he glanced back over his shoulder briefly at the ex-army medic before returning his gaze to the map with a length of red wool twisted in his grip, "Have you found him?"

"Benjamin Rhodes." Sherlock announced, brandishing one of the pins and wrapping the end of the wool around the sharp point before jabbing it harshly into one of the coloured lines. "Found dead in an apartment on Gloucester Place, the street directly opposite us, which was a location chosen specifically to grasp our attention. He was the first pseudo-John Watson, and the first message."

John couldn't help but wince at the 'pseudo-John Watson' bit, and he noticed that Sherlock had that _look_ on his face yet again for a split second, but then it disappeared beneath the detective's usual imperious expression as he ploughed on regardless.

"One week later and we received the second message, Bethany Lambert, left in a hotel room on Connaught Street." Sherlock pulled the wool taut along the map and stabbed another pin into place, connecting the two together with a line of red. "The next week, and Stephen Morgan is found, his body dumped on Bayswater Road, near Brook Street."

Another name, another pin. John had to lean a little further forward to peer around Sherlock's slender body to see the map, causing his back to ache painfully in protest, but he forced himself to ignore it.

"Victim number four was Zachary Evans, and his body was found in roughly the top left-hand side of Hyde Park. Another week's gap and we find David McCain in his apartment on Westbourne Grove."

"And then today we find the sixth victim in her flat on Kensington Road." John finished for him, pulling himself to his feet in order to get a better view. Sherlock shot a glance back at him again, one side of his mouth quirking up into a satisfied smile as he twirled a pin carelessly between his long pale fingers.

"Exactly. Joanne Wagner." He said, pushing the pin deep into the line that was the road in question before he jumped down off the sofa in a strangely feline way and stepped back beside John to admire his handiwork. The six small pins were stuck in their specific places, all connected by the length of wool. On the map, the markers were set out in the rough shape of a diagonal 'T', stretching out across the expanse of green that was Hyde Park.

To be honest, John couldn't really see how this changed anything, but it was obvious that Sherlock certainly seemed to think it had, judging by the wide indulgent grin on his angular face, all pearly white teeth and sparkling grey-blue eyes. If this had been any other time and they weren't discussing the murders of six innocent people who looked like him, John's heartbeat would've just about taken off into orbit from that one smile alone, but in his defence, it wasn't entirely his fault.

Sherlock Holmes was a very attractive man. That much was a well-known fact, and John wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd noticed that fact a fair few times during these past few months as the brilliant detective's flatmate. What he was ashamed to admit, however, was that he'd caught himself admiring Sherlock's _attractiveness_ far too many times to be considered healthy by the average heterosexual male's standards. But was John even the average heterosexual male? He wasn't so sure anymore. At one time, he would've been able to answer that without a second thought, but the longer he spent with Sherlock, the more he considered that _maybe_ he wasn't as straight as he'd previously assumed. Which was a bloody nuisance, considering how he was supposed to be dating Sarah and found himself thinking more about his flatmate than he did his potential girlfriend.

John just couldn't help himself. Sherlock was so impossibly fascinating to him, so… _mysterious_. The man had an aloof untouchable air about him, striding around in his slim-cut suits, long flowing coat and woollen scarf, looking so superior and impressive that every other person around him seemed so dull and insignificant in comparison. His skin, white as marble and completely flawless, contrasting so amazingly with his crop of dark chocolate brown curls that hung down around his chiselled cheekbones and intense, hypnotic eyes. Oh yes, John had noticed Sherlock. In fact, scratch that, he'd more than noticed. He'd _stared_. Stared at his flatmate whilst the detective had examined yet another cadaver, or irritated Anderson and Donovan at a crime scene, or chased a suspect around several back alleys of London, or even when he sat there in those horrid grey pyjamas and blue silky dressing gown, curled up in his armchair with his knees pulled up to his chest and a cup of tea in his pale hands, his full soft-looking lips pursed at the rim of the mug as he took a drink. Jesus Christ, John had stared alright. That's all he seemed to be doing lately around Sherlock. Well, that and imagining what went on beneath said horrid pyjamas, but he always tried to cut off that particular train of thought before it led him past the point of no return.

"He hasn't finished yet." Sherlock mused aloud, his smooth baritone voice tearing John out of his thoughts and bringing him abruptly back down to earth. John blinked and turned his head to look curiously at the side profile of his dark-haired flatmate.

"Sorry, what?"

"Moriarty. He hasn't finished killing yet. There's a definite pattern to these murders, and it's not complete, meaning he still has more messages to leave for us."

"Meaning we'll have another dead 'John Watson' on our hands next week, then." John sighed, bringing his hand up to rub wearily at his forehead. Despite his view being half-covered by his palm, John didn't miss the way Sherlock's body subtly stiffened at his words, his shoulders becoming suddenly tense and his smile rapidly disappearing. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the map in front of him, but then his eyes swiftly brightened again, as though he'd just been struck with another ingenious idea.

"Perhaps not, John." Sherlock grinned enigmatically, clambering back up onto the sofa cushions again, the remaining length of wool dangling around his skinny ankles before he yanked it impatiently up to hold it against the map again. From where John was standing, it looked like the detective was measuring the distance between the pins on Westbourne Grove and Kensington Road. "Pass me the scissors, will you?"

"Where – ?"

"Mantelpiece. Should be sticking out of my skull's left eye socket."

"Oh, of course. Where else." John muttered under his breath as he turned and moved over to the mantelpiece, shaking his head slightly at the skull that grinned back at him as he retrieved the scissors from the space where it's left eyeball used to be. Sherlock didn't bother to look, instead just waving one arm behind him impatiently, gesturing for John to hurry up and give him what he wanted. The ex-army medic obliged and the dark-haired man wasted no time in cutting two pieces of red wool into the same length before tossing the scissors uncaringly aside, no longer needing them. John winced at the loud thud sound the heavy metal made as it bounced away out of sight across the floorboards.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked with the slightest undertone of exasperation in his voice. Sherlock ignored him, his attention fully focused on obviously more important things as he pulled out the Westbourne Grove and Kensington Road pin markers, looped the separate lengths of wool around both and then stuck them back in the laminated map before he took the red strings in each hand and pulled them across the map until they met in a point.

John didn't think he'd get some form of explanation of what was going through the detective's magnificent mind any time soon, so he turned away and left him to it, making his way back over to the armchair he'd previously vacated.

But then he stopped as his eyes unintentionally landed on a couple of crime scene photographs that had been knocked off the coffee table when Sherlock had climbed over it. His brow furrowing, John gingerly bent down and picked up the topmost photograph, taking it with him when he straightened back up again.

John hadn't seen the first two victims in the flesh, because the fortnight after the incident at the pool, he had still been recovering from his gunshot wound in the hospital. Sherlock visited those crime scenes alone, and John had only found out about them when the third body turned up and his flatmate filled him in on what he'd missed on their way to Bayswater Road to examine the latest grisly message. It'd been a horrible and sickening experience to look down at a dead body that was supposed to represent him. John could only imagine how the consulting detective reacted when he'd found the first pseudo-John Watson all those weeks ago. Actually, he couldn't imagine. Would Sherlock have reacted any differently than he usually did when he discovered a murder case intellectually stimulating enough to relieve his boredom? John was his _friend_, his _only_ friend, so surely the man would've felt _something_, right? Ah, who knew? John definitely didn't, that's for sure.

John looked down at the picture in his hands and glazed, vacant tawny eyes stared back at him. A shudder trailed his spine as he ran his own tawny eyes over the corpse's face. This was obviously the second victim, Bethany Lambert. He already knew that she was nineteen years old, but what he hadn't realised was just how _young_ she truly looked. She'd been a very pretty girl, with a slightly heart-shaped face, wide eyes and thin lips. The harsh military haircut made her features appear a little boyish, which John supposed was rather the point, considering how she was supposed to resemble him. Oh God, she still had dimples in her cheeks, even with her face frozen in death.

His stomach clenched painfully in a tight steely grip. _Nineteen_. Jesus Christ, poor Bethany's life was over before it had really begun. She could've been someone's wife in years to come, a mother, a grandmother... Not now. Now she was dead. Nineteen years old. What an unnecessary waste of a life, all because Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes couldn't leave each other the _bloody hell_ alone!

"John," Sherlock called without turning his head, jabbing a final pin into the map with flourish. John brushed his fingers solemnly over the edges of the photograph before he placed it gently back down onto the coffee table and turned back to face the self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' that was his flatmate. "John, I know where he is."

Those six words were like a lightning bolt to John's system, adrenaline racing through his veins like liquid fire as he practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to Sherlock's side when the taller man leapt gracefully off the sofa cushions again.

"You do? How? Where?" John questioned, and instead of answering verbally, Sherlock simply stepped aside so the ex-army medic could see the map in all its entirety. The diagonal 'T' was no more, and in its place was a glaringly obvious arrow outlined with bright red. Suddenly the seemingly random locations where the murders had occurred made a lot more sense, and John felt a thrill of anger rise in his chest. Moriarty had been playing them like fucking pawns; killing innocent people just to carry out this stupid vendetta of his against Sherlock. He'd left those six victims as markers for a crude arrow across part of London, taunting Sherlock and John with its lack of subtlety as he led them straight to him. The _bastard_.

John leaned closer to read the street name beneath the seventh pin that formed the tip of the arrow.

"Kensington Church Street?"

"Yes. That's where we'll find our consulting criminal." Sherlock murmured, his features thoughtful as he tilted his head slightly to one side, his eyes roaming over the map with something akin to excitement. Then his expression faltered almost imperceptibly, as though something important had just occurred to him. If John had still been looking at the dark-haired man at that moment, he would've noticed how those grey-blue eyes flickered over to him and white teeth clamped down on one full bottom lip uneasily for a split second. But John missed it and Sherlock's chiselled face hardened back into its usual unreadable expression.

But there was a gleam of cold determination in his piercing eyes that hadn't been there before, and in hindsight, John really should've paid more attention to that.

"Tea?" Sherlock spoke unexpectedly, brushing some non-existent lint off the front of his suit jacket as he turned to look inquiringly at the ex-army medic, who was understandably thrown by the random question. What? _Tea?_ Sherlock had just figured out where Moriarty was hiding, and instead of jumping into the first taxi they came to and speeding straight to the psychopath's front doorstep, they were going to sit around and drink _tea?_ British they may be, but that was just plain ridiculous!

"Are you being serious?" John gaped at his flatmate, somewhat dumbstruck. The taller man gave him an amused half-smirk as he walked over to his desk and dropped what remained of the ball of wool back into the drawer he'd pulled it out from.

"Oh, absolutely. It'd be better for us to wait until after dark before we start creeping around all the apartments on Kensington Church Street looking for a psychopath. I don't know much about the social norms of today, but I doubt the general public would be very impressed if we tried breaking into their houses in broad daylight."

"Fair point." John conceded, giving the other man a small smile as he sheepishly ran a hand back through his mousy hair before he made to head towards the kitchen to put the kettle on for them.

A warm hand on his shoulder made him stop in his tracks. John turned his head inquiringly, raising his eyebrows at the detective who had crossed the room and was now stood behind him, his grey-blue eyes as unreadable as his face.

"Allow me," He said softly, his rich baritone voice a smooth silken rumble in his chest that literally made John's brain go completely blank for several seconds. He felt his face start to heat up, the detective's touch on his shoulder practically burning through his clothes. _Christ_, Sherlock, don't use that voice ever again, oh please don't...

And then the hand was gone, and Sherlock sidestepped John neatly, making his way into the kitchen of 221B. John just stood there, blinking dumbly as though he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes making tea? Now that was a first.

John glanced over towards the nearest window, absently listening to the sounds of chaos coming from the kitchen. Did Sherlock actually know how to make tea? He'd never done it before, since it had always been John's unspoken duty around the flat.

It was early evening now, so it was still pretty light outside, which meant they had about an hour or so to kill before they went out to do some breaking and entering in their hunt for the suited psychopath Moriarty. God, he hoped his flatmate was right about this. The last thing they wanted to do was walk straight into another trap like they had back at the pool. Last time, he'd been shot, and who the hell knew what else the tricky bastard could have up his sleeves? Probably another bomb, a _real_ one this time.

Sherlock reappeared in the doorway, two cups of tea held in his pale hands. He offered one to John and the ex-army medic moved to take it from him, trying not to let their hands brush against each other as he did so.

"Um, thanks." John murmured with a smile, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. Sherlock didn't smile back, watching the smaller man drink so intensely that his eyes felt like they were boring straight through John's head.

They sat down and drank their tea in companionable silence, John in his armchair and Sherlock on the sofa. Half an hour passed in that same way and darkness started to fall outside. Throughout that time, the consulting detective's eyes were fixed almost unblinkingly on John, and the shorter man was ashamed to admit that it unnerved him slightly. It was almost as though he was waiting for something. But what, John had no idea.

John yawned widely, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more tired than he had ten minutes ago. He had a headache coming on; he could feel it growing and throbbing at the front of his skull and he let out a small groan, letting go of the mug with one hand to press his palm against his forehead. Sherlock's eyes sharpened and he sat up straight, his gaze turning, if possible, even more intense than before.

Trying to ignore the dull ache in his head and sudden fatigue, John took another sip of tea, then paused thoughtfully after swallowing his mouthful. It tasted... weird. He'd only just noticed it now, but there was a strangely bitter aftertaste that really shouldn't have been there considering how Sherlock had put two generous spoonfuls of sugar in for him. John frowned down into the cup, his eyes having a little trouble focusing.

"Sherlock, I don't... feel right. The tea tastes a little odd... did you check if the milk had gone off again?" John asked, his eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. He lifted his head sluggishly and saw that Sherlock had put down his own cup of tea and had walked over to the door, pulling his long coat and scarf down from the coat rack and putting them on.

"It's not the milk, John."

The way he said that was the verbal equivalent of dumping a bucket of icy water over John's head. A thick wave of dread rose up in the ex-army medic's chest as he dragged himself to his feet, staggering unsteadily as his head spun with vertigo. He still had the half-empty cup of tea clutched in one hand, holding onto it like a lifeline.

"Then what is it?" John said hoarsely, the words catching unwillingly in his throat, "What did you put in my tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stayed completely silent as he looked over at the shorter man, his grey-blue eyes impossibly calm. John's vision tilted alarmingly and he stumbled on legs that had given up trying to keep him standing. The cup slipped out from between his fingers and smashed at his feet, spraying hot tea and jagged pieces of mug across the wooden floorboards.

John would've fallen straight down along with his cup if it wasn't for the warm body that caught him at the last possible second, gripping him firmly by the upper arms. John peered up through blurry eyes, catching sight of Sherlock's face swimming in and out of focus less than five inches in front of him.

"S-Sher… Sherlock…" John slurred, reaching out for something to grab onto to keep him grounded and his fingers closed around the soft woollen scarf that Sherlock hadn't finished tying around his pale white throat. The consulting detective's facial features might've softened slightly, but John could barely see anything anymore, his vision a sickening blur of shapes and colours that danced and morphed in front of his tawny eyes. God, he was so tired… so, so _tired_…

He felt himself being moved backwards until the backs of his legs came into contact with the sofa and his flatmate lowered him carefully down onto the leather cushions. John thrashed weakly in protest, but his limbs had turned unbearably heavy and refused to cooperate. He just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock's baritone voice murmured, sounding so far away even though John could feel the other man's warm breath on his face. Sherlock leaned closer, his rich woodsy scent filling John's nostrils as the ex-army medic felt soft full lips press tenderly against his forehead.

And then Sherlock was gone, moving away from him completely. John's lax grip was still caught in the detective's scarf and it unravelled from his throat, but the taller man made no move to catch it or pull it back.

"S-Sh… Sher…" John tried to shout the other man's name, but his tongue felt numb in his mouth. He reached out desperately with one trembling scarf-free hand, his eyes lidded and pleading as he furiously attempted to focus on his flatmate. He could just make out the dark-haired man's figure as he walked away from him, his coat flowing out behind him as he headed for the door without a single glance back.

"_Sherlock!_" The ex-army medic somehow managed to cry out. Sherlock paused in the doorway for the shortest moment, but then he swept out of 221B, the door slamming harshly behind him.

John's hand fell, and his world went black.

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**So what d'you think? I wasn't sure about this, but let me know if you liked it! :)**

**In regards to the second part, I was thinking about making it a bit steamy on the romance hehe ;p Don't know how graphic yet, but the rating may go up.**

**Second part's in Sherlock's POV, because I think he needs to damn well explain himself for this XD**


	2. Chapter 2

**Heya everyone, here's the second part for you :) I'm sorry if it isn't up to its usual standard, but my Health and Social Care coursework has seriously melted a chunk of my brain and I just couldn't wait until I'd finished that to finish this, so here it is :D**

**This chapter kinda ran away with me a little, and the confrontation scene itself is only vaguely mentioned, because if I'd gone into it fully then this chapter would've been insanely long. In fact, I'm deciding which Sherlock fic I should do next, so there's a list of possibilities in the bottom author's note for you people to choose from, because I want to know which you'd rather read first.**

**Oh! If any of you eagle-eyed people manage to spot the line from a song I sneakily snuck in here lol then you get the deciding vote. Unless of course no one spots it, or if everyone spots it haha then it's void XD**

**Read on and review for me please, thank you so much to everyone who has already added me or any of my four Sherlock fics to you faves and/or alerts, I appreciate it so so much! THANK YOU! **

**Little warning for this chapter: There be a tiny bit of man-loving at the end, ok? Not much, and not very graphic, because coursework seems to have eaten my ability to write graphic smut too, damn it ¬¬**

**Anyways, onwards! Haha :D**

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Sherlock's POV:

If Sherlock Holmes had never met John Watson, then none of this would've happened. The ex-army medic had turned from acquaintance to friend, and then to something so much more in the space of the few short months in which they'd been sharing the flat of 221B Baker Street, and the consulting detective was ashamed to admit that that scared the living daylights out of him. Throughout the dark-haired man's life, absolutely no one had ever managed to work their way under Sherlock's skin like John had, so he was completely unused to the concept of actually _caring_ about another human being, and caring about what happened to that human being when they happened to throw themselves in the line of fire for him. Which was exactly what John seemed to be developing a bad habit of doing whenever Sherlock found himself neck-deep in the usual amount of trouble and danger that really was part of the job description. Really, how had he survived before John Watson? God only knew.

But if it were somehow possible for him to go back to that fateful first meeting where the invalided ex-soldier had psychosomatically limped into his life, Sherlock knew without a doubt that he wouldn't change a single thing. Not for the entire world. He'd found something special in John Watson, something _unique_. A kindred spirit, perhaps. But definitely something of far more importance to him than he could've ever thought possible.

And the worst part of that was the fact that Sherlock hadn't realised exactly how much his flatmate meant to him until he came so dangerously close to losing him six weeks ago, back at the swimming pool where Carl Powers died.

A steady trail of blood marked Sherlock's ascent up the staircase to 221B, dark crimson droplets oozing sluggishly down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. Perhaps he should've been worried about the amount of blood he'd already lost, but to be honest, he really couldn't care less. All that mattered to him right now was the fact that John was completely safe and unharmed, and this nightmare was finally over at long last. Or rather, it was _almost_ over. There was still the ex-army medic's reaction to having his tea spiked with benzodiazepines to consider when Sherlock eventually made it back through the very same door he'd slammed shut behind him about seven hours and twenty minutes ago. That was a confrontation he'd seriously prefer to avoid, but he knew he had no choice. He'd have to face the wrath of John Watson sooner or later.

The consulting detective's face hurt like hell, and he winced as he pressed two slender fingers to his cheek gingerly, the vicious burning pain of his bruised cheekbone slicing through his head like a knife. It didn't feel broken, so that was something to be thankful for, at least. But even then, he couldn't bring himself to care. If he had to, he'd go through all of this a thousand times over, just to ensure that nothing or no one made the mistake of trying to hurt John to get to Sherlock ever again.

That'd been a fatal error on Moriarty's part. The manipulative bastard had decided to take their already dangerous game of cat and mouse up to a whole new personal level, relying on Sherlock's main crippling weakness to taunt the consulting detective with the one thing he feared the most. Somehow, Moriarty had figured out that overpowering fear long before Sherlock had even been aware of its existence, so using it against him had been child's play. Or so he'd thought. Because if anything, that had only served to fuel the taller dark-haired man's fire.

In hindsight, Sherlock knew he should've realised much sooner that the bomb was a fake. He'd assumed the other man wouldn't stray from his previous pattern with the explosives, but how wrong he'd been. If he hadn't been so entirely focused on getting the incendiary device as far away from his flatmate as possible when he'd all but torn it from John's chest, he would've noticed that the vest felt ever so slightly too light in his hands, and then he wouldn't have been momentarily stupid enough to underestimate his opponent and put a bullet in the bomb at his feet. And in that, as a result, John wouldn't have been shot in his place.

The hand signal Moriarty had given to his snipers was so blatantly obvious to Sherlock, but the detective wasn't fazed the slightest. Why should he have been? Less than five minutes earlier, the suited man had told him how he was saving the other man's inevitable murder at his hands for 'something special', so he was hardly going to let one of his henchmen shoot down his intellectual nemesis in the most boring, unoriginal and anti-climatic way possible. No, Jim Moriarty was as brilliant and clever as Sherlock was, and twice as devious. He'd had something else on his agenda, something that had happened so impossibly fast that even the great Sherlock Holmes hadn't had the chance to comprehend what had actually happened until it was too late.

He hadn't been the only one to notice Moriarty's small yet significant twitch of his left hand, and that's when John, brave _stupid_ John, had reacted with his impeccable military instincts and knocked his taller flatmate aside without a second thought about the consequences of his self-sacrificing actions. The taller dark-haired man had fallen heavily backwards onto the cold pool tiles, but not before he heard the unmistakeable sound of a muted gunshot and something warm and wet splattered across his face as he hit the floor, cracking his head hard on the unforgiving surface.

He'd tasted coppery liquid on his lips, and for a dazed split second he thought the blood was his, but then he'd groggily lifted his head up from the tiles and caught sight of the unmoving form of the ex-army medic face-down on the ground beside him, dark crimson seeping through the material of his knitted sweater at an alarming rate.

And that was the exact moment for Sherlock when everything came to an abrupt shuddering halt. It felt like the earth had literally stopped spinning on its axis, and everything had frozen in place at that one crucial horrific point in time.

"John? _John!_"

His fallen companion's name had felt as though it'd been forcibly torn from his throat as he'd scrambled to his knees and hurriedly but gently took hold of the shorter man and turned him over. Unfocused tawny eyes had met his own piercing grey-blue gaze, wide and expressive with so much pain and… _relief?_ No, that couldn't be right, but Sherlock's brain refused to linger on that pointless little detail when the bigger picture was so much more dire.

Those eyes had flickered a few times and then slid slowly shut as John fell into unconsciousness, and the taller man had wasted no time in drawing his flatmate's body closer to his own and wrapping his arms around him, his probing fingers finding the bullet wound in the short man's back. The long pale digits were swiftly submerged in scarlet as he'd pressed his hand as hard as he'd dared against the injury, trying to stem the flow of blood that was spreading out across the tiles beneath them.

And then he'd looked up to find Moriarty watching them with undisguised vindictive glee glittering in his dark intelligent eyes. Sherlock had quickly set his facial features back into their usual imperious unreadable expression, but judging by the growing smirk on Moriarty's face, it was already far too late for any façade.

He'd just inadvertently shown his hand to the other player in this game of theirs, and the repercussions of that would undoubtedly get someone killed. And both Sherlock and Moriarty knew _exactly_ who that person would be.

"Oh, this is too precious, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty had sneered, his wide white grin prominent on his face as he uncaringly kicked the fake bomb aside, "I knew you couldn't hide it from me forever. Dr Watson, the man who taught a sociopath to care. A liability if I ever saw one, my dear."

Sherlock hadn't replied, but his glare could've burned holes straight through Moriarty's smug face. If anything, that only made the other man grin wider.

"That's exactly what he is to you, Sherlock, and as long as John Watson remains by your side, I will _never_ stop using him against you. He's the weakness you really can't afford to have."

The consulting detective had then raised the Browning L9A1 again with the complete intention of putting a bullet straight between the bastard's eyes for real this time and damn the consequences, but that was the well-timed moment when his brother Mycroft had turned up with his men and made short work of Moriarty's snipers. The previously silent swimming pool had broken out into total chaos, with screams and shots ringing out left, right and centre, and bodies of several unlucky snipers falling from the top floor down to the tiles below. Amidst the confusion, Jim Moriarty had disappeared without a trace, leaving Sherlock clutching his unconscious flatmate to his chest, aiming a gun at the place where the suited psychopath had stood literally less than ten seconds ago. That's how Mycroft found him, and then Lestrade and his men, and eventually the paramedics who'd had to forcibly pry him away from John in order to get the ex-army medic into the ambulance as quickly as possible.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to let go, not for an instant. He didn't even care that he was covered in the other man's blood, because nothing else had mattered to him but the feel of John's slow heartbeat pulsing against his own chest.

He hadn't been able to force himself to visit John in hospital as he recovered. Even the thought of seeing his flatmate in one of those horrible sterile white beds, hooked up to an IV and smelling of disinfectant and illness and… God, Sherlock couldn't stand it. He hated it so much that it actually made him feel sick to his stomach. John probably thought he was being ungrateful by not visiting him when the shorter man had literally being willing to die for him, but it wasn't that at all. His reasons were much simpler, and much more shameful to a self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' like him. Moriarty knew his weakness, but Sherlock would be damned before he let John figure it out too.

That first week after the swimming pool incident had almost had Sherlock tearing his hair out in frustration and guilt. Of course, all of that was internal, and on the outside he was nothing more or less than his usual superior self, but he couldn't deny that he was affected by John's absence more than he'd ever be willing to admit to the other man.

And then, of course, Jim Moriarty had decided to up the stakes even higher, and the body of Benjamin Rhodes was discovered in an apartment on Gloucester Place.

That exact moment when Sherlock found himself staring down at the lifeless corpse of the first pseudo-John Watson, something broke inside him. He hadn't realised just how much it would hurt until it shattered like cheap glass, bringing his magnificent mind grinding to a standstill and just outright refusing to compute exactly what he was seeing. His sharp eyes had deduced all the minuscule little details, trying to catalogue them away, but his brain had refused to cooperate with the information it was being sent. If it'd been any other cadaver, he wouldn't have reacted any differently than normal. But because it was _John Watson_... Well, that changed everything.

It was like a kick in the face, a harsh reality that Sherlock never wanted to consider. His determination to catch Moriarty increased tenfold, along with the intense murderous rage that twisted and simmered ominously in his gut with every dead 'John Watson' that Moriarty left lying around for him to find. It wasn't a game anymore. It had ceased being a game to Sherlock when John took the fall for him with a bullet lodged beneath his left shoulderblade.

John had seen the third victim with him after his return from hospital, and his reaction to seeing near enough his own dead body staring vacantly up at him was both predictable and understandable. For Sherlock, this one hadn't hit him as hard as the others, but that was only because he could feel the body heat radiating from the ex-army medic standing beside him, and hear the man's initial harsh intake of oxygen and shallow breathing. He could even smell him, that warm comforting scent of John Watson that Sherlock couldn't help but think of it as being strangely the scent of _home_. Sherlock couldn't consider his flatmate's death when the man was so wonderfully alive right there next to him. It was oddly comforting in a way, and definitely helped to keep him grounded. Although that was something else he'd never admit to any other human being in a million years.

Sherlock groaned softly under his breath and let his hand flop lifeless back down from his cheek to his side, not caring that he'd left two red splodges of blood on his face where his stained fingertips had been. His torso ached horribly, and his other hand was achieving absolutely nothing where he clutched his stomach as tight as he could in an effort to dull the pain. Of course, a confrontation with Jim Moriarty was not something that one could escape unscathed, and Sherlock knew just how lucky he was to have managed to survive relatively in one piece. Ok, so he'd received a deep cut on his upper left arm that hadn't yet stopped bleeding and probably needed stitches, a thin slice on the right side of his throat that would've been fatal if it'd been two centimetres deeper, a bruised and swollen cheekbone from being punched in the face one too may times, chafed angry red skin from rope burns around his pale wrists, and various other superficial cuts and bruises that littered his slender form. Oh, and then there were the Taser burns on his chest and stomach. He'd never been repeatedly electrocuted before, but it was definitely an ordeal he never wanted to experience again as long as he lived.

But he was just so unbelievably grateful that John hadn't been there with him. If he had, then who knew what Moriarty would've done to him?

Sherlock knew. Oh, he knew only too damn well. Because the consulting detective was forced to lie there on the floor, immobile with pain and twitching violently from the latest Taser shock to his system while Jim Moriarty told him every little thing he'd had planned for John Watson. Out of everything else combined, the consulting criminal's vicious twisted words had cut him deeper than any knife ever could.

Drugging John had almost certainly not been the smartest option, but it had unquestionably been the most effective. After all, the small non-lethal dose of Flunitrazepam in his tea had the desired effect, and by Sherlock's calculations, his flatmate would be out of commission for about seven or eight hours, maybe longer depending on how much John had eaten earlier that day, or how little he'd slept the night before. Which had been more than enough time for a confrontation with a suited psychopath on Kensington Church Street without having to worry about the safety of his flatmate he'd left behind.

Sherlock wasn't proud of himself for what he'd done. It'd been necessary, unavoidable and so desperately selfish. He only hoped John would see it from his point of view, but the look of pure betrayal in those wide tawny eyes before the ex-army medic had passed out had been damn near enough to break the blackened shrivelled excuse for an organ in the taller man's chest. If he ever saw that expression on the other man's face again, Sherlock didn't know if he would be able handle it.

His therapist had said that the ex-army medic had trust issues. Sherlock Holmes was the only person that John Watson had let himself put so much faith in, just as Sherlock had found himself inexplicably letting John further into his life than he would've ever thought possible. And now, Sherlock could feel every ounce of that heavy trust weighing down his shoulders, knowing full well that he didn't deserve any of it. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe he'd caused irreversible damage to their friendship that could never be repaired. Maybe he'd ruined everything.

But none of that mattered, because it was a small price to pay for John's life. Nothing could change that, not even if the thought of losing everything he had and everything that he _could_ have with John Watson made a large part of Sherlock die inside. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation for the consulting detective. It was all down to John now.

Sherlock's journey up the staircase seemed to have taken a ridiculously long time, and yet it had been nowhere near long enough. Dread rose in thick waves up through the dark-haired man's chest, icy spikes of irrational fear clawing their way up his spinal cord as he found himself faced with the door of 221B with nowhere else to go but onwards. There were noises coming from inside the flat, crashing sounds and vehement swearing. The drugs had obviously worn off, then. Why did that scare Sherlock more than anything else he'd ever experienced or witnessed in his entire life?

Mentally steeling himself, Sherlock reached out and opened the door, leaving a bloody handprint behind him on the doorknob as he limped silently into the dark apartment, letting the door swing shut after him.

At first, John didn't notice he was there. The ex-army medic was much too preoccupied in tearing open drawers and cupboards at the opposite end of the room, knocking various books and objects brutally aside as he frantically searched the flat for his gun that the consulting detective had taken and hidden earlier that morning. He wouldn't find it. Sherlock had made absolutely sure of that.

He must've only just woken up, Sherlock realised, judging by the fact that none of the lights were on in the flat and John's feet were still bare, and yet the frenzied man was obviously seconds away from rushing out of the flat after his flatmate, weapon or no weapon. Sherlock shifted slightly in the threshold, partly uncomfortable and partly in pain, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. John suddenly froze at the sound, his spine stiffening so swiftly that he almost gave himself whiplash. He didn't turn around.

"Sherlock?" John said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Sherlock had to bite back a wince at the ex-army medic's unnaturally emotionless tone as he watched the shorter man's hands clench and flex by his sides. Oh, he was angry, so impossibly angry, but for some reason he was determinedly trying to hold it all back. Tension lined his shoulders, his fists white-knuckled and trembling.

The consulting detective didn't respond and a thick heavy silence filled the room, the hush broken only by both men's shallow breathing and the steady dripping of red liquid from between Sherlock's fingers. After what seemed like an age, John slowly turned around to face the taller man, and Sherlock met his flatmate's gaze for a split second before he had to look away, shame and guilt rising like bile in his throat.

John's tawny eyes were hard and cold; so unlike their usual warm expressiveness that for a moment Sherlock could truly see the battle-hardened soldier within John Watson. And it scared him, Christ, it really did.

When the silence became almost suffocating, Sherlock glanced hesitantly back over towards the shorter man, forcing himself to meet John's unfeeling gaze. He started to speak, to somehow explain himself to his companion without revealing too much, but John got there first.

"What did you put in my tea?" The mousy-haired man demanded frostily, his eyes flashing briefly, giving Sherlock a tiny glimpse of the overwhelming pent-up rage the other man was holding so ferociously in check. The consulting detective grimaced a little, pressing his hand a little harder against his injured torso as he subtly leaned himself against the doorframe to stop his legs from caving beneath him. It was too dark in the flat for John to properly see the taller man from across the room through the gloom, so he had no idea just how much of a mess his flatmate was at that moment. Sherlock felt dizzy, light-headed, but right then he didn't have a scrap of sympathy for himself. He'd only brought it upon himself, after all. And the cause had been well worth the wounds.

"Flunitrazepam." Sherlock told him, breathing harshly through his nose, the coppery scent of his own blood clogging his nostrils, "A powerful and quick-acting hypnotic and sedative, intended as a short term treatment for insomniacs, but more commonly recognised on the streets as the 'date rape' drug, due to its strong effects and high potency."

John's cold façade was cracking now, the tawny depths of his eyes starting to thaw out and burn as his lips thinned and a vein pulsed at his temple. The pale moonlight that shone through the window behind the shorter man backlit his form in such a way that the lines on his admittedly attractive face seemed to be etched even deeper with shadows. Emotionless was never an expression that could work on John Watson's face for long. It was like trying to defy his entire nature by burying his feelings so deep inside himself to keep control of them. In fact, it felt as though the roles had been reversed. For once, it was John who was the unreadable one, and Sherlock was feeling so much emotion that it was practically eating him up from the inside out along with the physical pain. If the consulting detective took two small steps forwards into the moonlight, John would've seen that too.

Sherlock shifted a little, moving no more than an inch or so further into the flat. John's eyes narrowed and then he looked away from him, furiously focusing his gaze on the desk beside him as he slowly shut the drawer he'd previously been searching through.

"I don't think you should come any closer to me, Sherlock, because you have no idea how much I want to punch you in the face right now." John told him, his voice strained through gritted teeth. And Sherlock honestly believed him. Every tiny detail of the mild-mannered man's body language screamed just how much he was holding himself back, and the dark-haired man had no desire to push his flatmate that far. God, as if he hadn't already pushed him far enough.

"Moriarty already took care of that for you." Sherlock replied softly. John's head snapped back up to stare questioningly at him as the dark-haired man gave a small grim smile and stepped into the moonlight.

Instantly John's face fell, torn between shock, anger and despair. The transition from soldier to doctor was so swift that Sherlock barely had chance to blink before his flatmate had crossed the room in about six strides and was standing straight in front of him, pausing only to lean slightly across him and flick the light switch on the wall by his head.

As the bright artificial light illuminated the flat, Sherlock's injuries were thrown into such sharp focus to both of them. Looking down at himself, the taller man observed his bloodied, torn clothing with disinterested detachment. He was much more intrigued by the growing puddle of dark red that was slowly spreading across the floorboards beneath his left hand.

"Bloody _hell_, Sherlock." John hissed under his breath in disbelief and horror, his trained medical eyes running over every inch of his flatmate's slender form. At the sorry sight before him, the ex-army medic somehow forgot his anger for the time being, gently but firmly starting to tug the other man into the flat and leading him towards the sofa.

"Sit down and take off your coat and jacket." John ordered, rolling up the sleeves of his knitted jumper authoritatively. Sherlock obeyed without a second thought, relieved that he could finally sit down before his legs refused to hold him upright any more.

Suddenly there were hands on his face, gentle fingers probing and prodding at his bruised cheekbone, and he had to bite down hard on his own tongue to stop himself from making any sounds of discomfort. John's face was impossibly close to his, those tawny eyes barely blinking as he examined Sherlock's swollen cheek so intensely that it felt like they were boring holes straight through his head.

The consulting detective inhaled deeply through his nose, replacing the metallic tang of blood with that wonderful cosy scent of John. This was probably as close to heaven as he was ever going to get.

Ah, John. How would a person describe John Watson? At a first glance, he was an average, ordinary uninteresting little man in funny knitted jumpers. At a second glance, some people might notice that way he held himself spoke clearly of a military background, and the sheer expressiveness of his tawny eyes and the laughter and worry lines on his lightly tanned face showed that the ex-army medic was a very comfortably emotion-driven man. But Sherlock could see far deeper than anyone else could, and although he too had thought John to be normal and boring at that first glance, he knew now that there was so much more to John Watson than originally met the eye.

His feelings for his flatmate had confused him at first. He'd never felt such attraction and attachment to anyone before, neither man nor woman, so he'd been completely out of his depth with all those unusual emotions clouding his logic. How could he have become so dependent on another person in such a short space of time? It just didn't make _sense!_ And yet, at the same time, it made absolutely perfect sense. It felt so... _right_. John Watson was everything that Sherlock Holmes wasn't. The consulting detective had once said that heroes didn't exist, but he knew better now. John was a hero. Heroes jumped in front of bullets for others, didn't they? Heroes saved people all the time.

And John Watson had saved Sherlock Holmes in more ways than he would've ever thought possible.

He finally knew just what it meant to let someone in, to see a side of him that no one does or ever will. How he felt for John, it wasn't platonic; it never had been, even from the beginning. But back then, he had been married to his work, and now... well, now everything had changed. Monogamy was boring and overrated. All he could ever want and need was literally right there under his nose, and it'd taken one suited psychopath, a single bullet and six dead pseudo-John Watsons to make him realise that.

With one final brush of fingertips against his tender cheekbone, John frowned and moved back, his narrowed eyes pointedly ordering Sherlock to stay put as he turned away and headed towards the kitchen. The detective gingerly pulled off his long coat, draping it over the back of the sofa before starting on the buttons of his suit jacket as he listened absently to the sound of John filling up a plastic bowl with warm water from the kitchen tap. His fingers were slippery and he struggled to find purchase on the tiny buttons, but eventually the jacket joined his coat and his flatmate reappeared, the almost overflowing bowl balanced carefully in his hands and a small first aid kit tucked under his arm.

"Give me your arm." John instructed as he knelt down in front of the taller man and placed the bowl of water and first aid kit on the floorboards beside him. Unwillingly, the dark-haired man stretched out his arm with a small scowl on his face, noticing how the previous white sleeve of his shirt was now almost completely stained red and sticking to his pallid flesh. The skin around the ex-army medic's eyes and lips tightened considerably as he gently took hold of the other man's arm, the feel of his unexpectedly cool skin making an almost imperceptible shiver trail the length of Sherlock's spine.

John rolled up Sherlock's slick sleeve as far as it would go, and when it refused to roll up any further he simply took the thin material in both hands and tore it, ignoring the sharp glare Sherlock shot at him in response. The smeared trails of crimson that ran down the length of his arm caught the detective's attention, fascinating him for a moment before his flatmate reached over, wrung out a piece of thick cloth from inside the bowl and set about cleaning away the blood that marred his flatmate's pale alabaster skin.

The next twenty minutes or so passed in complete silence, the only sounds coming from John occasionally sluicing the bloodied cloth back in the bowl or Sherlock's hisses of pain when the doctor accidentally pressed a little too hard against any of his injuries. John worked methodically and efficiently, neatly stitching shut the gash in his arm, wrapping it up securely with white gauze and dabbing at his numerous cuts with antiseptic, tying a length of bandage around each red raw wrist (even though that probably wasn't necessary), and even going as far as to dig up an ancient bag of frozen peas beneath a severed foot in the fridge for the detective to hold to his bruised face to ease the swelling. And the ex-army medic was doing a remarkable job of keeping his anger under wraps right up until the moment he spotted several circular blackened holes in the white material that covered Sherlock's torso.

"Sherlock, are those… what I think they are?" John asked, his voice dangerously low. Sherlock didn't answer and John's tawny eyes flared with rage as he reached forwards with one trembling hand and slowly lifted the his flatmate's shirt, baring the man's slim stomach. The consulting detective made no move to stop him, just letting the other man stare in pure undiluted horror at the Taser burns that stood out so vividly in contrast to Sherlock's stark white skin.

"You fucking idiot! You stupid stubborn _bastard!_" John swore viciously, surging to his feet and tearing his hand brutally away from Sherlock's shirt as though it'd physically burned him. The dam had well and truly broken, and all that fury John had tried so hard to control came rushing out like a tidal wave, washing away everything else in its path.

"What the hell were you _thinking_, Sherlock? You drugged me just so you could run off after that psychopath and get yourself _tortured?_ Is this still a game to you, or do you actually care about your own welfare at all? Or does none of that bloody matter, because you've finally found something worth your time to cure your never-ending boredom!"

"It's not a game. Not any more." Sherlock answered quietly, turning his head to the side to avoid meeting John's furious gaze. His flatmate wouldn't understand. Sherlock refused to let him.

"I don't believe you." John replied.

"I don't expect you to." Sherlock shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, but inside he could feel himself unravelling, his world so precariously close to coming crashing down around his ears.

And just like that, every tiny scrap of anger left John's body in one fell swoop, his shoulders sagging and his face contorting in pain as he dropped his head down to his chest, his eyes blinking rapidly as he stared at the floorboards beneath his feet. His hands were trembling again, fists pearly white and bloodless. And if anything, seeing John like this hurt Sherlock more than seeing him beside himself with fury. He wanted to reach out to the shorter man, but he knew that would only make things worse.

"I can't deal with this right now," John murmured, so quiet that even Sherlock had to lean forwards slightly to hear him, "I can't deal with _you_ right now, Sherlock. I can't... God, I just can't."

Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest as John shook his head and turned away from him, walking over to the nearest wall by the window and leaning helplessly back against it, cradling his face in his palms as though he simply didn't have the energy to hold his head upright anymore. Silently, Sherlock rose from the sofa, leaving the bag of peas behind as he made his way slowly towards the ex-army medic. John heard him approach, but he didn't look up, not until Sherlock had closed the gap between them and was standing much further into the other man's personal space than was completely acceptable, but neither man cared about 'acceptable' at that moment.

Long pale fingers reached out and encircled lightly tanned wrists, gently tugging the other man's hands away so bright tawny eyes could meet piercing grey-blue ones.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock?" John whispered, his face scrunched up in misery, his brow furrowed harshly and his teeth clenched as his fists wound themselves desperately into the material of Sherlock's ruined white shirt. Unable to do anything else, Sherlock leaned closer, pressing his forehead against John's, trying to let his body language convey what his voice never could.

"It was necessary."

"No it wasn't, I could've helped you, I could've protected you..."

"No, you couldn't. If you'd been there with me, Moriarty would've killed you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. He was disappointed that I went to confront him alone, because you were supposed to be the seventh victim, and I was supposed to watch you die."

John's warm breath ghosted against Sherlock's bare throat and the detective brushed his lips softly against the shorter man's forehead, just like he had done earlier before he'd left John behind, unconscious on the sofa.

"You... you already knew that, didn't you?" John asked, lifting his head so he could look Sherlock full in the face, but something had changed in those tawny eyes of his. Realisation and understanding was slowly creeping in, the ex-army medic joining the dots as easily as Sherlock had linked the six pseudo-John Watsons into an arrow on the map.

"Yes." The dark-haired man admitted quietly, bracing one hand against the wall beside John's head. Surprisingly, the confession wasn't as difficult as he'd expected it to be, so he kept going. "I couldn't watch you take the fall for me again, John. I couldn't let Moriarty use you against me. I... I don't like seeing you hurt."

There, he'd said it. The words were out in the open now, echoing in his ears, and he suddenly felt horribly vulnerable. He'd always been unnaturally adept at controlling his emotions and feelings, learning from a very young age that it was better to hide everything beneath a stoic façade than to show his weakness to the rest of the world.

Grey-blue met tawny for the longest moment, and somehow, Sherlock knew. He knew exactly what he needed, and he'd be damned before he let anyone else try to take it away from him again.

So for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't stop to think, instead letting himself react purely on feeling and tilting his head downwards to press his mouth against John's in a chaste meaningful kiss.

It was over almost as swiftly as it began and the dark-haired man moved back slightly, touching the tip of his tongue experimentally to his bottom lip. Modern society didn't exactly approve of homosexual relationships, but Sherlock was overwhelmed by just how _right_ something as small and innocent as that kiss had felt. Society didn't know what it was missing.

John's eyes had practically doubled in size with shock and he stood there dumbstruck, staring up at Sherlock as though he'd grown an extra head. The taller man shifted slightly, suddenly wondering if he'd done something wrong, and he made to step back, but John's fists only tightened their grip on his shirt, refusing to let him move an inch.

The ex-army medic didn't say a word, but he didn't have to, because his tawny eyes told Sherlock more than he ever thought possible.

They came together again, their lips fitting so perfectly against each other. It started off tentative but then became more assured and daring the longer it continued, their tongues eventually meeting and twining deliciously around each other in their mouths. The taste of John was just so addictive that Sherlock couldn't help but press himself even closer to the other man, trying to devour him. And from there on in, they passed the point of no return, crossing that all important line from friend to lover. And by God, they loved every minute of it.

Clothes were shed almost in desperation, abandoned where they fell in a trail leading towards the sofa. They kissed without pausing for breath, practically glued together by the mouth as their hands explored every inch of bared skin, memorising every tiny detail. Sherlock's fingers brushed over John's back, feeling the latest addition to the other man's collection of scars. The tissue was fresh and pink, puckered beneath the taller man's fingertips.

John lay back on the leather cushions, looking so heart-stopping beautiful with his skin flushed with arousal and his chest heaving, his eyes lidded with lust and need as he stared up at the naked slender form of the man straddling him, pale thighs clenched tightly around the shorter man's hips. With one hand, John reached out and let his palm explore its way up Sherlock's toned abdomen, then lurched upwards and followed his hand's path with his mouth, pressing against each tiny circular burn left behind by the Taser as though he was trying to kiss the wounds away, his lips so soft and oh so wonderfully gentle as they ghosted over Sherlock's pale skin.

The detective shivered, his head tilting backwards and his eyes sliding shut, a low moan spilling from his throat before he could even consider biting it back. Not that he'd actually _wanted_ to bite it back, of course.

"If you ever drug me again, Sherlock, I swear to God..." John gasped out as Sherlock took his wrists and pinned them down either side of his head, leaning in to nibble and suck at the juncture between the shorter man's neck and collarbone. When satisfied with the mark he'd left behind, the dark-haired man moved back, smiling slightly as he gazed deep into the bright glittering tawny eyes of his soon-to-be lover.

"I won't, I promise." He told him sincerely. John's responding smile was so wide and warm that Sherlock's mind went momentarily blank before the shorter man pulled Sherlock's face back down to meet his waiting lips.

Everything else was forgotten then as they moved together, pleasured cries and moans filling the room, gasping each other's name in reverence and worshipping each other's bodies. At that moment, Sherlock's world was so magnificently complete, because nothing else mattered to him except the feel of John writhing beneath him, his heartbeat pulsing in perfect synchronisation with Sherlock's own. Their hands were clasped together against the cool leather, fingers entwined.

Moriarty had been absolutely right about one thing: John Watson was definitely a liability to Sherlock Holmes.

But to be honest, he wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

**The ending was a bit abrupt, I admit. :( But ah well, it couldn't be helped.**

**Anyways, it's time for a show of hands, people! Which one of these do you want first?**

**1, The missing confrontation scene between Sherlock and Moriarty, with hints of John/Sherlock.**

**2, A sequel to or continuation of When We Sleep, slash obviously. ^^**

**3, A little oneshot involving John and Sherlock in a powercut, possibly graphic smut.**

**4, A possibly multi-chaptered fic in which Mycroft recognises his brother's feelings for John and intervenes to get them together, setting John up on an unusual date that gives us a whole heap of Jealous!Sherlock. Slash John/Sherlock, maybe smut at end.**

**So which of those four do you want me to do first? Bear in mind that I have to get through this shitload of coursework first though so it might be a while.**

**Review for me, please? It'd make me happy ^^**


	3. AN Missing Confrontation Scene

**Heya everyone, this is just a little note for those of you who might not have me on author alert or whatever, but I've just posted up the missing confrontation scene from this fic, called 24 Kensington Church Street, so if you want to go check it out then the link is here (just minus the spaces)**

**http :/ www. fanfiction. net /s/6363008/1/**

**Well done to Sky-Thorn who discovered the hidden lyric and got the deciding vote, and the confrontation scene was her choice :D**

**Next on my agenda is option 4, because it was the one the majority of you seemed to want from me, so look out for that soon, ok?**

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, faved and alerted any of my Sherlock fics, thank you so very much! I'm honoured :)**

**Lv PrincessNala  
XxXxX**


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